Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; <br />What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? <br />No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; <br />All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. <br />Then if for my love, thou my love receivest, <br />I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest; <br />But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest <br />By wilful taste of what thy self refusest. <br />I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, <br />Although thou steal thee all my poverty; <br />And yet love knows it is a greater grief <br />To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury. <br /> Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, <br /> Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-40-take-all-my-loves-my-love-yea-take-the/
